


As The Bells Ring

by pinstripedJackalope



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Sports, Church Bell Motifs, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sickfic, Vomiting, quidditch counts as a sports AU right, there are no sports in this to be clear, this is just a sickfic tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: “Sorry,” he says, and swallows on instinct when his stomach turns in protest.  “I didn’t… I was hoping…”He shuts his mouth.  He doesn’t know what he was hoping, except that Joe wouldn’t have to see.“You’ve been having a lot of nightmares, haven’t you?” Joe asks, and his voice isn’t accusing but something inside Nicky flinches like it was.***AKA a quidditch-verse sickfic set in December of Part V.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 140





	As The Bells Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aglassfullofhappiness (mehmehs)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a family that flies together (sticks together)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26384458) by [aglassfullofhappiness (mehmehs)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/pseuds/aglassfullofhappiness). 



> GOD OKAY SO. Once upon a time @mehmehs wrote five chapters of this _amazing_ fic, and I started talking to her, and she gave me permission to write a little oneshot for her and HERE IT IS!! I strongly reccommend reading _a family that flies together (sticks together)_ first so you get the full experience of this fic.

_The shots ring out in rapid succession, one ringing_ crack _flowing into the other. Nicky knows the sound—it echoes through his bones like the gong of the massive Italian church bells of his hometown, has echoed there since before he learned to fly, when he_ _’d first heard a bludger crack against a bat on the morning radio just before his mother went and turned it off for breakfast. It is a sharp, solid sound, heavy as it rings and rings and rings and he knows already where the arc ends, where—_ who _—will be struck. He has watched it happen so many times, repeating over—and over—and over—and he is helpless to stop it this time, as he has been helpless every—_ single _—time—before. He cannot stop this from happening, does not know why or how it came to be. He doesn_ _’t know where the pain-fear-grief ends, or where the anger begins. All he knows is that he knows that sound—and he knows where it came from._

_He turns, slowly and surely, away from the end of the arc, from the world that is crumbling to pieces, and towards the source. The source of the pain, of the suffering, of everything that is wrong with the world as he knows it. The source of his fear and anger and everything in between._

_It doesn_ _’t take long to find it. To reach it. To reach_ him _. Nicky is on his feet on the Quidditch pitch in the blink of an eye, towering before the figure waiting for him. He reaches for his wand but—he has no wand. It doesn_ _’t matter. The magic is singing at his fingertips already, a buzz of static arcing behind his eyes, eyes that can only see Keane, kneeling, before him. Keane smirks, or perhaps just smiles—it’s hard to tell with the way his face seems so indistinct. Nicky raises a hand, fingers curled, and he knows in that moment that he is going to kill this man before him. He is going to rip him piece—from—bloody—_ piece _—_

_—except somewhere along the way Keane shifts in the way that dreams shift and there—_

_—in his place—_

_—kneeling on the grass—_

_—his smile soft and his eyes kind—_

_—is the very last man on this earth that Nicky has ever wanted to hurt._

_He tries to stop, tries to pull the magic back and lock it inside the small, dusty little chest that resides in the corner of his mind, lock it down where it belongs, but it_ _’s too much too much too MUCH, it’s a pressure like a supernova pulsing out of him and he can’t—he can’t—they are on a collision course, Nicky’s fury and Joe’s smile, and Nicky—oh, god—he’s been here before—knows this like he knows the sound, the ring of church bells, the crack of a beater’s bat—has watched his own bludger slam into Joe’s chest and knock him from his broom a hundred feet from the ground—but this isn’t the seeker of an opposing team who got in the way of his shot, this isn’t a stranger in the wrong place at the wrong time, no. This is Yusuf, his Yusuf, his heart and life and love. And as Nicky watches, all he can see is the shift in Joe’s face as that soft smile twists into pain, into fear—as Nicky stands over him—wandless, furious, terrifying—utterly, utterly unable to stop. Nicky’s magic flows from him in a cascade, a waterfall, a torrent of everything ugly inside of him and he can only watch in horror, realizing all at once that he meant to kill and his magic cares not for who happens to stumble into that fate so long as it’s sated—_

_—if it can ever be sated—_

_—if the insatiable hunger of the fury within him can ever be staunched—_

_—if he_ _’ll ever be able to reign it back now that it’s free—_

_—because it isn_ _’t Keane, or the bludger, or the bat that is wrong—_

_—no—_

_—it is Nicky—_

_—Nicky, and the magic, and the depth of the fury that forces it from his chest—_

_—flowing, flowing, flowing—_

_—as Joe cries out in pain—_

_—his heart crawling to a stop as Nicky bears down—_

_—the last word on his lips a plea—_

_—for Nicky to please—_

_—please—_

_—wake—_

_—up—_

—and just like that Nicky jerks, his eyes flying wide in the darkness of their bedroom. For a moment all he registers is nausea, pulsing at the back of his throat and threatening to overcome him. Then, slowly, the world begins to seep in around him. The darkness of the room, the quiet… Joe is behind him, arm wrapped securely around his stomach. He hums, thick from sleep, nose at the base of Nicky’s sweaty neck. “You’re okay,” he says, as Nicky gasps in a breath. 

Nicky hums back, pushing the air out again, slowly, through his nose. The nausea doesn’t disappear but it does ease, just a little, as he focuses on his breathing. In and out, in and out… god, it was just a _dream_ …

“Sorry,” he says, and swallows on instinct when his stomach turns in protest. “I didn’t… I was hoping…”

He shuts his mouth. He doesn’t know what he was hoping, except that Joe wouldn’t have to see.

“You’ve been having a lot of nightmares, haven’t you?” Joe asks, and his voice isn’t accusing but something inside Nicky flinches like it was. They’ve only just started finding their footing again, just barely begun falling back into stride—their relationship is delicate, plain and white and so, so thin, like an eggshell that threatens to crack under the weight of too many mistakes. Or at least that’s how it feels, as Nicky shudders in Joe’s arms—it feels like he’s going to ruin everything, like every misstep could be his last, and all of this just when he thought it was all within his grasp once again. If this is the last night he can lie with Joe, the last time he’s held so close, _god_ —

He swallows again as the nausea begins to rise once more, creeping up his throat. Joe’s arm around his stomach becomes oppressive, the warmth from the body behind him too hot, the pressure uncomfortable. Nicky shudders, somehow both too nauseated to stay but too afraid to move, lest he moves too much and the magic inside of him boils over. He knows it’s irrational, knows that Joe has proven that Nicky won’t hurt him, but it still feels slow and sick and volatile, like it’s rising up inside of him and he’s helpless to stop it from forcing its way out once more—

“Hey,” Joe says, cutting through his panic. “Nicky, Nicolò, _hey_.”

Nicky moans. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and he’s not sure anymore if he’s speaking English or Italian or some strange mix of the two. All he knows is—

— _the crack of a bludger_ —

—that the nausea isn’t going back down now and—

— _anger, fury_ —

—he can’t quite swallow down the spit in his mouth and—

— _smile turning to pain_ —

—okay, okay, yeah, he needs to get up before he throws up in their bed.

Breath thick in his throat, he claws his way upright, kicking away blankets as he goes. It’s been a long time since a nightmare has had him this unsettled, good lord—he shudders, his skin sticky with sweat, lamenting the fact that Joe has pulled back but still somehow grateful at the same time, his head and his heart all turned around, forever at odds. He groans, planting his feet on the ground and tipping forward until his clammy face is in his hands. 

“…Do you want to talk about it?” Joe asks softly behind him, an opening laid gently in the space between them. And Nicky _does_ want to talk about it—sort of. He just… he wants to want to, but all he can feel is nausea and all he can see is Joe’s scared face and it’s all too much, a tangled knot inside of him and he’s never been great with words at the best of times and—he swallows. Shivers. Wills his stomach to _settle_.

It doesn’t. 

“I need to—I have to—” Nicky groans again, pushing himself to his feet. The world swims around him, streaking across his vision, a slight ringing in his ears. He hears Joe cursing, scrambling across the bed after him, but all his focus is on stumbling from the bedroom and into the bathroom, planting his hand over his mouth halfway there because suddenly he isn’t sure if he’s going to make it. He doesn’t feel like a world-renowned athlete as he lurches for the toilet—not even one that’s been banned from the league. He doesn’t feel strong or quick or graceful. He just feels fucking _sick_. Too hot, unbearably nauseated, uncomfortable in his very _skin_.

He makes it to the toilet, thankfully, but he barely has a second to center himself before he throws up, head bowed over the bowl. Joe is talking, somewhere far in the distance—Nicky moans, and throws up again. 

He pauses there, breathing hard. He thinks—hopes—that maybe it’s out of his system now, but he’s proven wrong not three seconds later when he’s forced to duck down again, and then again, and then, god, once more after that, his blood pounding in his ears and drowning out everything but the sound of dinner coming back up. 

He tunes back in a few minutes later to Joe calling his name, sounding somewhere between carefully distant and worried. “Nicky? _Tesoro_?” he says again, when Nicky doesn’t respond.

Nicky jerks, feeling two steps behind. He’s supposed to respond, he’s supposed to—Joe doesn’t need to worry. Nicky spits into the water, quickly flushing the toilet and scrubbing a hand over his face as he struggles to pull himself together. “I’m okay,” he says, belated. “I’m—it was just the nightmare, I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Joe says, but his tone is soft and his hands softer, his knuckles stroking up the side of Nicky’s face until his palm rests against Nicky’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s not too bad. I—”

Nicky snaps his mouth shut as Joe frowns down at him, pointing a finger warningly at his chest. “Don’t you dare say it,” he says, an odd little twitch at the corner of his mouth, like there’s a smile there struggling to break free but he’s not sure if he should let it out.

Closing his eyes, Nicky tucks his chin, biting his lip. He doesn’t like that expression on Joe’s face. It’s been there a lot recently, and he just… he _hates it_. Hates that Joe has felt so uncertain around him these past few months. He’s done his best to be here for Joe because Joe deserves that, he deserves support as he recovers and finds his way again after his injury… but no matter _what Nicky does_ or _how hard he works_ his fear just keeps leaking into the air between them, tainting their relationship and keeping them at a distance. 

“Hey,” Joe says, and Nicky has to stop himself from flinching away from the hesitance in his voice. Joe doesn’t hesitate—he can be soft, he can be gentle, he can be quiet, but no matter what, Joe is someone who _acts_. People call him impulsive, cocky, but that isn’t it—he’s just sure of himself. No matter where he is or what he’s doing, he knows his next move. The fact that Nicky has managed to trip him up, has made him doubt his path, made him temper his reactions… Nicky closes his eyes. He’s messed this all up, and he only has himself to blame.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he only registers the sheer misery in his own voice after the words are out and he can’t take them back.

He doesn’t know what he expects Joe to say to that. What he expects Joe to do. He sits, rigid on the cold tile with his eyes squeezed shut and the taste of vomit on his tongue, and he’s so tired of hurting, so tired of being trapped inside this body with all this magic that he can’t control, so tired of nightmares and never being on the right wavelength with the people he loves and the inescapable pavlovian anger that surges through him at the sound of a beater’s bat hitting a bludger, one crack two cracks and the world starts crumbling all over again and it’s Nicky, Nicky who can’t control himself, Nicky who is stuck here, trapped inside himself, unable to get free and dragging down everyone he touches right along with him—

— _careless, furious_ —

—until he feels two gentle hands curl under his jaw, tilting his face up toward the light that halos Joe, who is kneeling on the tile before him. “ _Habibi_ ,” Joe says, and the twitch has smoothed into a smile now, small and sad but so, so fond. “You’re doing it again. Stop living in your head and use your words. I’m ready and willing to listen, I _promise_.”

Nicky swallows. _Oh_ , he thinks. _Right_. And then he swallows and opens his mouth and—

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s not what he expected of _himself_ but there it is. He curls his arms around his stomach, holding in the pain even as he lets the words come out. “I keep thinking, if I really loved you I would—I would just—I would _go_. But I can’t. And I wonder—if maybe I take care of you because I want to feel useful and not because you need me. You have your family, you have the team—you don’t need _me_. You don’t need—”

— _the anger_ —

“—someone who can’t give you everything. Someone who is—”

— _wrong_ —

“—selfish—”

— _and_ —

“—distant—”

— _and_ —

“—who would have killed someone if they hadn’t been stunned.”

Pulling in a deep breath, Nicky pauses there, waiting for Joe’s smile to drop, for him to lower his hands. Instead, Joe just shakes his head.

“Nicky, my Nicolò… I don’t care,” he says. His fingers tighten before Nicky can pull back, thumbs stroking Nicky’s cheeks. “No, no— _listen to me_. I _do not care_. I don’t care if this is you being selfish or distant or out of control, because if this is the worst you can do, if you at your worst is _caring so much for me_ that you _lose it a little_ , then fuck, I’m in. I can handle it. All this tells me is that you’re human, and sweetheart… I already knew.”

“But… I…” Nicky swallows, his face twisting a little and a lump growing in his throat. “I—my magic—”

The words get stuck, and he grits his teeth, jaw flexing under Joe’s hands. Joe, however, seems to know what he means because he just shakes his head and says, “It’s still part of you, Nicky. It’s scary and it’s more than you know how to handle right now, but we’ll figure it out. Okay?”

Nicky blinks, hard. Joe is still on his knees in front of him, still haloed by the light behind him, still _here_ —and even as selfish as it is, Nicky _wants him_. He wants Joe here with him, holding him together as he threatens to fall apart. Because Joe is good, and Joe is kind, and Joe makes everything better. Nicky may not deserve him, but he wants this, and as long as Joe wants the same thing he can’t find it in himself to argue. Not now, with sticky sweat drying on his skin and the fever burning away inside him and his stomach aching like it’s itching for round two.

“…Okay,” he says weakly, and huffs when Joe makes a ‘ _you can do better than that_ ’ sort of face. “Yes, yes, okay,” he says, stronger, firm.

Joe looks at him for a moment more before he nods, satisfied. He then pulls back until his hands are resting on Nicky’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles. “Good. Now, if it’s all okay with you, I’m going to go see if we have any ginger in the house because I can see that your stomach is still bothering you, even if you don’t want me to know.”

“I don’t… _not_ want you to know,” Nicky sighs. “I just… I hate to be sick. Especially now. When you’re…”

“No, nope, no guilt,” Joe says. “You’re allowed to be sick and that is final. You’ve been stressed to hell and back, I’m honestly surprised it took this long to hit.”

Nicky screws up his face. “But I’m supposed to take care of you, I’m not supposed to be—”

— _attacking people_ —

— _ugh_. He shakes his head. He wishes he could just—turn his brain off. The nightmare is distant now, but the emotions it dredged up are right at the forefront of his mind, knocking insistently against every little thought that crosses it. He purses his lips against, forming the words carefully to say, “The last thing I want… is to hurt you again.”

Joe stares at him, and his dark eyes are so intense that Nicky imagines them peering straight down into his soul. Then Joe shakes his head, standing up. “The only thing that hurts is when you don’t let me help,” he says, and it’s honest and pained and fond and sad and good god, Nicky just… he loves this man so much that he doesn’t know what to _do about it_. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry or to run far, far away, doesn’t know how to hold on without holding too tight. It’s a flaw, a fatal one, he knows that intimately. But he’s so tired… he doesn’t have it in him to fight this. He’s been fighting so long, fighting his feelings, his desires, his magic, his subconscious, his family, his past, present, _future_ —the list never ends. He just… he _doesn_ _’t want to fight anymore_. All he wants is to curl up with Joe and let himself be held.

He sighs, hunching over with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. Joe moves around the house, and Nicky listens as he rattles around in cabinets and talks to himself in a low voice. His skin is starting to prickle with a clammy cold, and the nausea is still there, but it’s settled a bit now—a slight twinge rather than an insistent pressure. For now, at least, he’s okay. _Actually_ okay. Emotionally exhausted and physically wrung out, maybe, but he hasn’t broken anything beyond repair and that’s all that matters. 

“Here,” Joe says a moment later, coming back into the bathroom. He holds out a small potion bottle, one of the ones prescribed to him. “It’ll help with the nausea.”

“I don’t need your potions,” Nicky says, a frown creasing his brow.

Joe rolls his eyes. “It’s not a draught of rejuvenation. It’s just to help settle your stomach.”

“Yes, but it’s… what if you need it?” Nicky asks.

“I haven’t needed them in a while, and I have plenty left,” Joe says. He then produces his wand, coaxing over a steaming mug from the kitchen counter. “Not to mention the fact that I have your _favorite_ mint tea.”

Nicky perks up at that. “The one that your mother sent us?”

“The very same.”

Oh, blessed be the angel who crafted Mariam Al-Kaysani. Nicky reaches out eagerly, taking the mug. He’s just about to raise it to his lips when Joe sneakily uncorks the potion and dumps it into the mug.

Nicky yelps. “Joe— _why?!_ ” 

Joe hums, corking the empty bottle. “It’ll make you feel better. You can trust me, _habibi_.”

“I _trust_ you, it’s just… you’ve wasted it. It’s supposed to be for you,” Nicky says. “I’m not sick enough to need potions, it’s just a little bug—”

“That had you stumbling out of bed to throw up five times in a row,” Joe says, unmoved. He crouches down, stroking his warm hand up Nicky’s damp sleep shirt. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Nicky.”

Nicky frowns. “You’re certainly one to talk,” he says. Still, he sniffs at the mug, letting the scent of mint waft over him and only wrinkling his nose a little as he catches a whiff of something more medicinal. He glances back over at Joe, whose pleading eyes are watching him closely, before he sighs and begins sipping at the hot tea.

It’s… not as bad as he thought it would be. He can barely taste the potion, and the effects are almost instantaneous, his stomach settling and his head clearing. He hums, finishing the tea slowly with Joe’s encouragement. He waits a moment to see if it’ll stay down… but he feels fine. Tired, yes, but fine.

“…Yes, okay, you may say it,” he sighs.

“I _told_ you it would make you feel better,” Joe says, grinning. He strokes his hand down Nicky’s cheek, setting the mug aside for tomorrow. “You ready to go back to bed now? You must be exhausted.”

Nicky hesitates. If the nightmares come back… if he has to relive that day again, in any iteration… he’s not sure how he’ll manage. The _crack-crack_ he hears in his dreams… it isn’t like the church bells that would ring through the cities in Italy, isn’t like the sound of a bludger on the radio when he was a child. It was a herald of the worst day of his life, and he just—he can’t _escape it_. The fear-pain-fury of it all _haunts_ him. How can he go back to sleep when he knows the end of the world is waiting, just behind his closed lids, his anger chomping at the bit as it waits for the chance to escape and wreak havoc—?

But no. Joe is still here, Joe is okay—Joe is beautiful, and resilient, and _ferocious_. Nicky knows— _too well, too intimately_ —that Joe is human, that Joe can be hurt… but he is _still here_ and there is _no force on earth_ that can take him away again, not tonight. 

Nicky swallows one last time before he takes Joe’s hand, allowing Joe to pull him to his feet. He follows him like he would follow the sweet swell of church bells down the streets of his hometown, guiding him home day after day. He’d follow Joe to the ends of the earth, he thinks, because for all their faults, for all their faltering, he knows where he wants to be. He smiles, a little crooked but no less sincere, as Joe bundles him back into bed and crawls in behind him, looping his arm around Nicky’s chest and drawing him in close. 

Yes… he knows where he wants to be. Right here, in Joe’s arms.


End file.
